


Mayhap This Eagle Needs Jesses

by Everbright



Series: Two Swords 'Verse [2]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon - Video Game, Light Bondage, M/M, Smut, Threesome - M/M/M, Wordcount: 5.000-10.000, light power games, two siblings having sex with the same person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-09-16
Updated: 2011-09-16
Packaged: 2017-10-23 19:00:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/253812
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everbright/pseuds/Everbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Altaïr hasn’t yet seemed to grasp that Malik and Kadar aren’t his concubines anymore. Malik is going to make their new status abundantly clear to the sultan, and Kadar doesn’t at all mind helping out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Mayhap This Eagle Needs Jesses

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Eagle's Two Swords](https://archiveofourown.org/works/253813) by [wanderingflame](https://archiveofourown.org/users/wanderingflame/pseuds/wanderingflame). 



> This is a sequel to 'The Eagle’s Two Swords' by Wanderingflame, and she was also kind enough to beta this porn-tacular thing for me. Takes place just after the end of Swords.

“That twice bedamned, arrogant, _idiotic_ …” Malik trailed off, unable to find a word that described Altaïr to his satisfaction, so deep was his displeasure. The hand clutching the scabbard and its belt clenched hard enough to whiten his knuckles, before he made an effort to breathe evenly and calm himself as much as possible. The soles of his boots tap, tap, tapped loudly on the stone floor as he strode through the halls. He would take this useless, over-ornamented excuse for a sheath and throw it in Altaïr’s face, no matter what he was doing!

When Altaïr had presented it to him, “As a gift, for my new Sayf al-Mulk,” Malik had been filled with pleasure despite himself. The scabbard and belt were made of a thick, strong leather that could have been used to make gloves, let alone a simple belt to hold up a sword. The scabbard was finely worked with an intricate pattern of geometric shapes, amber drops and polished jasper mingling together in gold. It was a fine thing, fit for any general in the field. It would catch the sun and let his soldiers find him, while the warm colors rendered it unassuming and fit for wearing even during regular training in the courtyards.

But then he had tried to fit his sword into the sheath; it would not even hold the entire length, a whole hand’s breadth of blade stuck out beyond. Malik lost his temper completely. He accepted his need for new clothing, boots, and even the scabbard itself to show his new status in front of the troops. It proved to all who looked upon him that the sultan trusted him to train the army, lead it, decide each soldier’s fate on their Master’s behalf. However, the sneaking suspicion that the gifts were not so much to show his new status, but to reinforce Altaïr’s old claims, was caught afire when he realized the scabbard was fitted to another sword altogether than the battered tool he had picked up to fight against Robert.

These untimely gifts had to stop. As long as Malik allowed Altaïr to outfit him at his leisure, he would never really be anything but a…a…harem boy for the sultan’s pleasure! Malik rounded the last corner and sighted the sultan’s door with its matching guards. They visibly groped for composure as their superior did not so much stop as hold the world around him still with his sheer fury. Mikha’il on the left went subtly pale, while Musa’s face contorted slightly around his mouth. They both kept their eyes strictly on the wall across the way.

“I would have words with our _Master_ ,” Malik hissed. “Is he within?”

“Yes, sir. He has been in his rooms since mid-morning.” There was a twinkle in Musa’s eye.

“Musa, if you smile at me, I will beat you to death with this scabbard.”

The guard’s face straightened out the tiniest bit. “Yessir.”

Malik tucked the whole bundle of leather under his armpit and reached for the door handle, planting his feet. “We will not be disturbed.” Both guards responded affirmatively, as they should, and Malik hauled open the door, stepping through swiftly.

He promptly almost lost the scabbard, his breath catching at the sight before him. Altaïr and Kadar were stretched out across the bed. Altaïr and his _brother_ were stretched from one corner of the bed to the other, sweaty and naked and absolutely absorbed in each other.

Kadar was laid out flat on his back, so open and vulnerable it made Malik’s heart ache. His hands reached over his head, gripping and twisting Altaïr’s red sash freely. There was no knot even holding his wrists together; it was only the feather light weight of the cloth that seemed to pin his arms to the bed. Kadar’s chin was tipped up, his eyes closed and his mouth open, a constant stream of sounds issuing from his mouth. His feet were planted on the bed, trying to gain him the leverage to lift his hips higher.

Even folded over his own knees, Altaïr did not allow that. His left hand held down Kadar’s hip; his right held tightly and mercilessly to the base of Kadar’s cock. Altaïr bobbed his head in a leisurely rhythm, and Malik could see his jaw flexing, betraying the motions of his tongue.

The jangle of the belt’s buckle as Malik barely caught it caused Altaïr to open one eye and look straight at Malik. All of a sudden Malik could feel his pulse beating, his ribcage expanding and contracting, his stillness ringing in his ears. His previous fury did not leave him, but catapulted him into a deep and wild lust. The defenseless arch of Altaïr’s spine demanded he plant his hand on it, to hold the sultan down in service.

And then Kadar let out a _whine_. Or, almost a whine, except so deep, deeper than Malik had ever heard his little brother’s voice, that it made something in Malik’s stomach curl, and he heard himself inhale like he was the one suffering Altaïr’s mouth. The sultan had moved his left hand to the bed to brace himself, and was now bent even further over Kadar, his pace faster, his mouth dropping lower.

“Al-Altaïr! Now… I’m…aaah, AH!” Kadar’s stomach flexed, his shoulders coming off the bed. He held that arch for a second, and then two, and then another before he dropped back, his whole body contracting rhythmically before finally relaxing. Altaïr held him gently through the spasms, his throat moving as he swallowed Kadar’s issue. He then lifted his mouth, licking up the last bits of seed that surged from Kadar as he shivered with sensitivity.

“Are you well, Kadar? Have I broken you?” Altaïr asked as he lifted forward on his knees over Kadar, cupping his right hand around the back of his bedmate's head.

“No, no, I’m,” and here Kadar’s newly opened eyes focused on Malik in his high temper, face flushed and eyes wide. Malik could see him give a convulsive shiver before continuing, “I’m fine.”

The spell holding Malik still snapped. He took a few long steps forward and dropped the leather on the bed, using his freed hand to find a grip in Altaïr’s hair and pull him up and back until he was forced to sit on his feet, shoulders back and spine arched away from Malik.

“But you will not be,” Malik said, his voice hoarse as he looked down at the sultan. If Altaïr could see Malik’s eyes he would be more worried than he affected, with his hands relaxed by his sides.

“Oh? What do you plan to do, Sword of my Kingdom?”

“I will show you that when you play with a sword, or two,” and Malik’s eyes met Kadar’s almost without his will, “you sometimes get the edge. We are no longer your playthings, Altaïr, you freed us yourself. You cannot blunt me by showering me in gifts, or own us by covering us in your symbols.” Kadar had brought his hands down to rest on his chest, still tangled in the red sash. Malik looked him purposefully in the eye, glancing at the belt and back again. Kadar clenched his face tight, and then opened his eyes wide, forcing himself a little more awake. He sat up bonelessly, tucked one leg under the other and reached forward until his head almost rested in Altaïr’s lap.

Malik pulled just that much harder on Altaïr’s hair as the man was distracted by Kadar’s movements. “You are the Eagle of Masayf, are you not; a hunting bird that swoops down upon his prey? Mayhap,” and here Malik slouched forward to whisper directly into his left ear, “this hunting bird needs jesses.” Altaïr jerked back from Kadar a little too late, his hands already strapped together by the sword belt. Malik looked down the sultan’s chest to see the leather was secured as Kadar had habitually tied too-large belts most of his life, drawing the strap through the buckle and then knotting it around the taut side, so that any pressure would only draw the knot tighter.

“Eagles are meant to be free, my sword.” Malik ground his teeth. Altaïr was still calling him ‘his’ even with his own hands tied. Did the man know no shame? “There are not many men who take that bird to hunt without losing some blood.”

“Oh, do not worry, Altaïr.” Kadar’s still low tone and earnestness riveted both the amber and jasper eyes upon him. “My brother knows well how to tame a bird. He trained many when we were younger,” and here his tone hardened ever so slightly, “and more free.” Kadar shifted up and draped his left arm over Altaïr’s shoulder while bending his head close to Malik’s. “What would you have me do? What help can I be?”

Malik breathed deeply, looking at Kadar’s pink cheeks and beseeching eyes. “Find the bolster that was brought here from the harem, the wide cylinder with tassels on the ends. Then place your back against that wall,” Malik turned his head to look at the head of the bed, feeling Kadar’s skin almost touch his own, “and provide a brace for our Master’s shoulders. Can you do that, brother?”

“Yes, of course.”

Kadar removed himself from Altaïr’s lap, moving toward the pile of cushions in the corner that had somehow made their way up to the sultan’s room after the last women had left the harem. She had smiled with her whole soul as she rode away with not one, but two of the sultan’s soldiers, one still laid up in a wagon waiting for his abdominal wounds to heal.

Malik let Altaïr sway forward after Kadar, and then used his grip to push the sultan onto his front. Altaïr barely caught himself on one shoulder instead of his face before Malik came down behind him, pushing a thigh between Altaïr’s legs.

“Are you hard, oh Eagle? Do you ache and burn? Any man would, after what you have been doing.” Malik pushed his hand down between Altaïr’s shoulder blades, holding him still as he inched his knee just a little farther, feeling the weight of Altaïr’s erection. The man’s hips twitched, and he grunted into the sheets at the feeling. “I think we should do something to relieve that pain. The best birds are trained with kindness, not cruelty.”

“I am yours Malik, just as you are mine. But I am not your bird to be tamed to hand. Let me go.” Altaïr wriggled a little, only succeeding in settling himself more firmly on Malik’s thigh. “Do you not want what I gifted your brother with? Did he not look well satisfied after receiving it?”

Malik’s mind ran in a tight circle, not immediately sure how to answer the question, the angles and curves of it misleading his mind. “You only gave my brother a sheath, without a harness to hold it to him. We are two different people, and I require different pleasures for satisfaction.”

Some small sound caused him to look up at Kadar. He was well situated against the wall, kneeling with his legs apart, his back cushioned with another pillow. The bolster rested beside him. Malik nodded, “Yes, perfect. Pull his shoulders up against your knees.”

It was not an entirely graceful maneuver. When Malik tried to untangle their legs, Altaïr rolled on to his left side and planted his right foot on the bed behind him. He used the leverage to continue his motion, and kicked Malik squarely in the right lung. Malik's breath left him in a rush, the peculiar feeling of only half his chest deflating almost as distracting at the pain. “None of that,” Malik wheezed, and he heard Kadar laughing as their hands met under Altaïr’s arms. They hauled him up the bed, fitting his head between Kadar’s knees once again.

Still on Altaïr’s right, Malik leaned down to kiss him. The sultan's lips were swollen with their labors, rose-colored and enticing. Malik licked Altaïr’s lower lip, pushed his tongue into one corner, pressed their lips together and sucked a little. He lifted, panting, and bent down to play with Altaïr’s lips again, becoming distracted with this one act, no longer even pushing to take his mouth.

Altaïr’s lips parted a bit, and his tongue started to play with Malik’s. Then finally he seemed to lose all patience and strained his head up to try and control the kiss. They at last parted when Malik was so involved in Altaïr’s mouth he forgot how to breathe.

“What is the matter, Malik? I thought you were going to break me, that I was not going to be ‘fine.’ Have you lost your determination, are we only going to play at children’s kissing games?”

“If you did this as a child, it is a wonder some girl’s mother did not castrate you,” Malik panted. “And you are acting no older than a child yourself. The great Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad al-Tayyib has descended to such petty insults after a few kisses, how like a little boy!”

“M’mmm,” hummed Kadar. “You are not giving Altaïr all the credit he deserves, brother. He was with me since morning training ended.”

“Oh, was he?” Malik thought of the guards at the door. “Then perhaps some mercy should be granted.”

“Mercy!” He leaned back as Altaïr tried to lunge for him, even from such an awkward position. Kadar’s hands flew to hold down his chest, and Malik nodded his thanks.

“Yes, mercy.” Malik rolled off the bed and tugged at the hidden ties of his black robe. “You were so kind as to give me _such_ mercy, when I did as all soldiers are obligated, and tried to escape.”

“I did not keep you in chains under the earth in a lightless hole! You had every…luxury…” Altaïr’s voice trailed off as Malik let his robe drop and pulled the edge of his tunic up and over his head. He sat bare chested on the edge of the bed, undoing the buckles of one boot and then the other.

“Every luxury and no dignity!” Malik’s anger rose like the tide; he stood up and threw both boots into the far wall. “Do you know how hard it is to command a man into battle, when he has seen you as a bare foot and shirtless harem boy? How hard I must work to maintain discipline when the one or two fools in a hundred think I am nothing but the sultan’s plaything?” Malik stood up and yanked at the ties of his sirwal, letting them drop down from his hips unimpeded. “You, your Majesty, should not be surprised if I tied you down to that bed and did not let you come at all!” Malik and Altaïr were glaring at each other to set the world on fire when Kadar’s voice broke the tableau.

“Brother!” Both men broke their gaze to look at Kadar, Altaïr craning his head back with some effort. Kadar’s erection had never fully subsided, and now it looked to be lifting again, hanging over the sultan’s head. “I… you should…” He bobbed his head toward Altaïr, looking unsure of his words.

“Yes, of course.” Malik gave his head a little shake to clear it of red mist; Altaïr would deserve that, but this encounter was for his and…for his satisfaction. He furrowed his brow; where did Altaïr hide the oil? That last time – the night before Robert’s attack – Altaïr had seemed to produce it out of the ether while Malik was in no condition to notice anything. Since then, their relations had been negotiated very carefully, if without words. While they all slept in the same bed, and quite comfortably Malik admitted to himself, this was the first time he had witnessed Altaïr and his brother…together. Malik and Altaïr had been circling each other warily; exchanging the use of each other’s hands in obscure corners and locked rooms.

But now Malik was going to do something to change all that, if only for his own peace. He walked around to the far side of the bed from the door, thinking back. Only Altaïr’s right arm had been free, just then, so…he dropped down into a crouch and looked under the low bed frame, and there against the wall was a basket containing a red glass bottle with a handle, a small mound of folded cloths, and some interesting – items – carved out of the same brown jasper as the scabbard’s jewels. The sultan was apparently well supplied even before he acquired his harem. Malik hung the cruet off one finger and grasped several cloths, nestling them by Altaïr’s side before sliding back onto the bed.

“Mercy then, and relief.” He folded himself over his knees just as Altaïr had, kissed the sultan’s left foot, licked and bit around to the inside of his ankle. Malik moved his head in-between those slim feet and tried to nibble at the tendon, smiling to himself when Altaïr moved his legs apart to accommodate the pleasure. It was just enough room for Malik to surge forward, wedging his shoulders through Altaïr’s thighs and planting his hand by the sultan’s left hip. Altaïr gave a strangled shout as Malik lapped up the crease between his leg and cock, sucking a little for good measure. He continued his way up the sultan’s belly toward his restrained hands.

“How did you ever come to lead an army? You have the tactical sense of a gnat.” Altaïr seemed to decide responding was beneath his dignity and favored him with a glare from close-slit eyes. Kadar and Malik shared a grin; neither of the brothers would have been fooled by such a simple ploy. Then Malik bent his head, kissed the leather and the wrists underneath it. “Kadar, keep these out of the way.” Kadar’s tongue came out a little, licked his lip as he drew Altaïr’s hands up to rest in his lap, and he squirmed slightly as the back of Altaïr’s fingers feathered across his erection.

Malik tore his gaze away and moved to Altaïr’s left nipple, worrying the nub with his lips, sucking in rhythm, pushing against it with his tongue to make it rise. The areola ruched up suddenly and he dawdled at the edge, feeling the difference from many blood-filled bumps to smooth skin. A strike of pleasure went though him; Altaïr’s chest was subtly rising, chasing after more sensation. He bit the tip just a little harder than he thought comfortable and Altaïr hissed in a breath through his teeth. Malik lifted his head and looked the sultan straight in the eye.

“These gifts you give me I need as the Sword of the Kingdom, the head of your army. They are the symbol of your trust in me, and if your guards see me dressed in fine clothing and bearing a well-balanced sword, they will trust me as they do you.”

“This I know, I – erjh!”

Malik slid back, grinding into Altaïr’s arousal before sitting on his heels, dragging the bolster down the bed with him. “I do not think you truly know! The scabbard and sword belt are fine things indeed, but they are useless without the sword they are made for. I looked like a fool in the armory, trying to fit my shamshir into a too-small sheath only because you feel the need to make me come to you and beg for your next gift! Authority is earned from men, Altaïr; do not undermine me because you cannot remember I am no longer a concubine.”

Altaïr looked dumbfounded, blinking once before he again cleared his expression to stoic opacity.

“Even I know that, and I have never been a soldier,” said Kadar reprovingly. He was playing with the sultan’s right nipple, had probably been doing so since Malik was licking the other, and he gave it a tweak as he spoke. The sultan twitched, ruining his attempt to control his expression.

“Fine, I shall never again give you a sheath without a sword, or a hood without a tunic, or any other thing like that. I will make it clear to all you are my trusted general, just as I do trust you.”

“Good!” Malik slapped Altaïr’s flank. “Then lift your hips; it will make this more pleasurable.”

Altaïr glared at him as he complied, the muscles of his torso working smoothly to lift his lower body completely off the bed. “For me or for yourself?”

“Both. You will see.” Malik allowed himself to smile as he shoved the large round pillow under Altaïr, now in a much better mood. He had made his case, and won it like a throw with weighted dice. And too, a sultan he may be, but Altaïr looked just as ridiculous as any other man with his knees dangling over his belly.

Malik wedged the cruet between his legs and eased out the tightly fitted stopper, dropping it on the bed next to him. Altaïr’s jewels are already tight, flushed red and textured like a pouch with its drawstring pulled too quickly. Malik couldn't help himself; he leaned down and lapped at them, felt the small hairs rasp under his tongue. He realized, out of the heavens, that he was much more aroused than he thought. The smell of Altaïr’s groin, the sight of his swollen cock, the movements escaping his control all hit Malik at once, and he had to close his eyes and rest his forehead for just a moment, gather his control before he spilled like a boy on the sheets. The sultan, thrown open for him like this, was much too attractive.

He sat up sharply, and then poured more oil than he meant behind Altaïr’s jewels. It dripped down his sac and ran into the crease of his cheeks in an instant.

“Cold!”

“Quiet. You _are_ a child, whining about a little chill.”

“On my manhood! You would not react any differently; you would swear at my name like a caravaneer at a camel!”

“Perhaps,” Malik conceded while he placed two fingers at the base of Altaïr’s crease and scraped them upward in a quick stroke, using the oil to smooth a circle around that tight clench, rubbing at the constricted muscle. He pressed down just the smallest amount, and then pulled the flesh outward the tiniest bit, not trying to delve inward at all. Just stretching, just massaging a place that might feel good for a little work.

“But I do not think this has cooled you at all; your foreskin is still pulled back. Your entrance is flexing, relaxing under my fingers.” He risked a quick look at the sultan’s face. His eyes had lost a little of their sharpness, and darkened. His torso was tensed, lifting up his hips instead of resting all his weight on the bolster. Malik felt a fierce pride, or hunger, or something of them both. Altaïr wanted this, wanted to be spread wide for his ex-concubine. Malik added pressure, but no more speed, to his fingers; scraped more oil from Altaïr’s skin and started to delve past that first ring the slightest bit.

When both his fingertips could rest just within Altaïr and were pressing against the second ring of muscle, he reached again for the bottle. He looked from his hand, to his cock, and back to his hand before giving in to the inevitable, pouring too much oil on Altaïr a-purpose. This time, the sultan only gave a hiss as Malik reached down and smeared his whole hand, front and back, in the drips that trailed down the his belly. He gripped the base of his own erection and pulled up, slowly, twisting to cover the entire shaft in oil, rolled his palm over the head only once. He still released a deep whine, low in his throat.

Altaïr seemed to be physically moved by the noise, as he twisted his hips and wriggled. The ripple of his body led Malik’s eyes upwards to Altaïr’s bound hands, where he gripped Kadar’s cock with the fingers of one, and used the thumb of the other to rub at the knot of nerves underneath the head. Kadar was hunched over, breath following Altaïr’s motions. His brother's hands were braced half on his knees and half on Altaïr’s shoulders.

Malik gritted his teeth; he was obviously not commanding enough of Altaïr’s attention if he still had enough of his mind to be doing another thing altogether.

“Altaïr!” He angled his wrist back sharply and rubbed the pads of his fingers around the fleshy bloom of Altaïr’s hole.

“Yes?” Altaïr lowered his gaze to look at Malik, his eyes a little glazed. His whole chest was flushed now, his nipples stood up in peaks of their own accord. Malik pushed a single finger inward slowly, turning his hand over as it sank deeper, one knuckle after the other disappearing until his fingers were flush against Altaïr’s ass.

“You should focus your attention here.” Malik started a rhythm like a prayer murmured by memory, the push and pull strictly metered to its own time. “On the finger,” he slid another in right on the beat of his thrusts, “on the _fingers_ inside you, on the sword of your kingdom making its own sheath in your body.”

“But not the true sword, yet.”

“That will come soon enough. I want to see your pleasure, just as you made a study of mine the last time we,” he curled his fingers into the knob of pleasure inside Altaïr, “were naked in this bed. I remember you kept your fingers in me for so long the oil lamp was half burned away. Although, I think my studies will be more efficient.” Malik kept the rhythm as he hooked his thumb over his smallest finger, curled his hand to make his three extended fingers into a point and sank them together into Altaïr.

“rrR…aaAH!” The sultan could not seem to keep the sound between his teeth. It swelled into the room, filling Mailk’s ears with its sweetness.

“Oh, you see? I’ve produced such a noise from you so much more quickly.” He added a curl to each stroke and watched Altaïr’s cock flex in time with the pressure. Malik was filled with triumph and lust, and so surprised at himself. He had never felt this powerful pleasuring a partner before; drawing out a whimper never made his chest swell like this, or hot arousal pool under his belly. He could almost understand why Altaïr fought, how he fights, for Malik to remain under his control. It’s the satisfaction of winning a long and hard-fought game of shesh-besh combined with the thrill of galloping over a plain at top speed; he and Altaïr are working toward the same goal, but under the guidance of _his_ hand.

“Do you want me to take you now? Do you want me to slide my cock in until you feel it within your belly? You must tell me, I will not thrust into you so your shoulders are rocked back against Kadar again and again unless you want this, want me.” Malik knew he was being a little cruel, but he needed to hear the things Altaïr’s body was saying also come from his mouth.

“Yes!” Altaïr shouted. “Yes, now, do it now!” Kadar’s loud exhalation was not quite muffled by Altaïr’s demand.

Malik slowed his pace to a crawl; shuffled his knees forward and apart to lower his hips. He kept the slowed rhythm, thrusts his fingers in, pulled them out, slipped his cock between his fingers and pushed into Altaïr.

Malik lost his breath between his teeth, and Altaïr lost his in an open-mouthed moan. All three men held still for a moment. Malik felt Altaïr clench and loosen around him, working to settle into the sensation; he made the effort to breathe evenly, tried to think of the steps of a sword practice.

“Move.”

Malik looked at Kadar blankly.

“Move, he’s ready. I can tell he is just using the time to control what he shows.“

“Traitor!” Altaïr glared upward.

“Not at all. I will follow _my brother_ before any other, you know this.” Kadar gripped his own shaft over and around Altaïr’s hands, used them to stroke together. “You should keep him busy, brother.”

Malik blinked, then started to move. It wasn’t quite right yet, even as tightly as Altaïr fit around him. Malik guided Altaïr’s right ankle to rest on his shoulder, leaned forward a little bit, and placed his hand where the sultan’s ass met his thigh.

“Uungh!”

Yes, that was it. Altaïr was clenching all of his body now, the muscles of his stomach tensing and pushing his hips up to meet Malik’s thrusts. The low moans, and grunts, and short whines that had filled the room before were now issuing from Altaïr’s throat, as they should. Malik sped up his pace, feeling his breath fall naturally into the same pattern as in sword practice. All of Altaïr’s sheath was tightening around Malik, making it hard to stay in his mind, to stay here instead of flying off to paradise. His entrance felt like a tight ring was being pulled up and down Malik’s cock, catching beneath the swelled tip.

He opened his eyes, (when had he closed them?) to assess the sultan. How close was he to climax? Please would it be soon; Altaïr’s ridiculous honey-walnut skin was showing red from chest to ears. Malik dropped down a little further, the rhythm of the fastest sparring pattern dominating his actions, this clash and retreat demanding more of his attention than any battle.

Malik felt a single convulsion, a flutter. That was it, there, Altaïr was balancing on the edge! Kadar must have sensed it also, perhaps in the faltering grip of fingers around his own length. His hand struck as a viper, his fingers glistening as they pumped the sultan’s arousal only once. The sight of semen spilling out freed Malik; he dropped his shoulders and pounded in with desperate force and no rhythm at all. Angry white pleasure closed off his senses to everything; everything but Altaïr’s last few spasms.

When Malik came back to his senses, he pushed Altaïr’s foot off his shoulder and down, fell over curled on his left side. Kadar met his eyes, laid out against the wall, pre-dawn blue looking glazed and shattered.

“Altaïr.” The sultan was as honey between them, his head resting across Kadar’s thighs and legs flopped where Malik had pushed them. The base of his neck had a drool of semen crawling down.

“Mm?”

“Where is my brother’s sword?” asked Kadar, still looking into Malik’s eyes.

“Bottom rung of my weapons rack.”

Malik curled forward and draped himself over Altaïr’s side, reaching for his hands. The sultan was so covered in semen, from belly to throat, that Malik counted it lucky that the belt had escaped a spattering. The red marks were deeper that they should have been, though.

“Kadar, he pulled. See to his wrists.”

Malik did not watch as he hauled himself over the edge of the bed, dipping down to grab the scabbard on his way. He juggled the leather between his hand and teeth, threading the scabbard while walking over to the weapons rack.

The bottom sword on the rack was…strange. It was wider than two of his sword, but shorter. There was a groove along the outer curve, perhaps to carry away blood? The hilt fit into his hand perfectly, the disc cradling the back of his fist much unlike the abrupt downward knob of a shamshir.

“What is this? I have never seen a sword like it.” Malik gave it a cautious pass through the air, slicing across an invisible enemy’s chest.

“My far cousin-sultans call it a talwar. It’s made in the mountains past the inland sea to the north-east, and the metal comes from even farther east than that.” Altaïr was laid over Kadar’s lap, his brother bent over him to check the sultan’s wrists for damage. “I saw it in the armory when Maria was done re-organizing the mess left on the battle field. I had forgotten it.”

Clamping the scabbard under his arm, Malik slid the talwar in and then drew it out again smoothly, noting how the single amber hilt-jewel completed the inlay’s pattern. He dropped the scabbard and ran though the first practice pattern to get a feel for the blade. It balanced perfectly, moved like an extension of his arm. Malik did not think a sword made for him could have felt better.

“I have a good eye for swords, do I not?” Malik could feel Altaïr’s stare on him, like a weight on his back and belly and balls. He kept his peace for the moment, putting the sword reverently on the rack and turning to pick up his clothes.

Malik drew up his sirwal, tying the slip knot deftly. He slipped the light tunic over-top his shoulders, set the leather around his hips and down his left side for the perfect cross-draw. Last, he dropped Kadar’s clothes at his brother’s side and shrugged into his black robe. It had to be tucked behind the sheath to keep it out of the way; the robe would have to be replaced with something more suited for martial pursuits. He had no arm to get in the way so maybe he should make a virtue of it, wear a light coat that wrapped over his shoulder and fastened just above the belt? It would part correctly to keep the hilt free.

“Oh, you have a fine eye for picking swords, _Master_.” Malik took Kadar’s vacated place on the bed and braced himself to loom over Altaïr. His two fingertips scraped up slowly from the hair around the sultan’s cock, over his belly, over his ribs, dipping into the notch of his collar before scooping up some of the mess. He traced them back and forth against Altaïr’s lower lip, teasing him until he opened his mouth and took the fingers in. “But I am better at training Eagles.”

Malik swiftly slid backward off the bed and whirled to face Kadar and door. “Now, what do you think of trying out this new blade with me?”

“Oh!” Kadar’s eyes lit up as he passed the sword over in the proper manner, then walked backward to brace his right shoulder against the door and push outward. “You should do the egg trick!”

“I have not even sparred with it yet! Do you think I will be able?” With the talwar fitted perfectly into his new scabbard, he followed his brother out the door. This day had not started out well, but the Brothers Sayf had, as always, turned circumstances to their advantage. And, just maybe, they had gained a little stature in Altaïr’s eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> The [shamshir](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shamshir) and the [talwar](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Talwar) are both part of the same family of ‘radically’ curved swords that developed in the Middle East, although the talwar didn’t show up until about a century after the shamshir and was mostly used in Muslim India. For those of you who caught the reference, yes Malik’s sword was made in Afghanistan, and yes the steel came from India.
> 
> [Shesh-besh](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tables_%28board_game%29) is the Persian-rules version of Backgammon. [Sirwal](http://thesteamerstrunk.blogspot.com/2011/01/tutorial-time-sirwal-turkish-trousers.html) is the proper name for the pants Aladdin and Princess Jasmin wear; they were common and unisex in the medieval Middle East.
> 
> Sayf al-Mulk translates to Sword of the Kingdom, and Altaïr’s new title al-Tayyib literally means the good, good-natured, or generous. *snicker* Thank you again, [Mr. Appleton](http://heraldry.sca.org/laurel/names/arabic-naming2.htm).


End file.
